


One Mistake

by Wildsouthwest



Category: Super Sentai Series, 手裏剣戦隊ニンニンジャー | Shuriken Sentai Ninninger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, from the end of episode 17 onwards, heads up this is just self-gratuitous angst, i'm the worst for writing fics and not finishing them, if I even get that far, sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildsouthwest/pseuds/Wildsouthwest
Summary: ...can change everything.





	One Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had the idea for 'but what if Kinji _did_ turn evil' in my head for ages now, but I only realised recently the best, most painful way to go about actually writing it. And I realised that it'd take rewriting literally two thirds or more of the entire canon, so have my dumb break-it fic so I can put my fave through all the suffering.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Don’t tell me you’re still on American time?”

Kinji barely hears the rest of what The Last Ninja is saying; suddenly the world has gone ice cold, his mind blank with shock. He forgot to set his watch onto Japanese time; he was so determined to fulfill his dream that he’d forgotten something so _basic_ …

He senses more than sees the movement beyond the sudden _nothingness_ of his shattered dreams; and when he snaps back to attention with a sharp jerk of his head, Yakumo stands before him. Behind the blue ninja, there’s a flash of irritation fading from Takaharu’s face, but Yakumo’s is the blank slate of someone trying not to show emotion. He’s not in Kinji’s personal space, but his hand is - and when Kinji looks down, he sees the purple shuriken they just earned. Surfermaru’s.

“Here.”

Kinji can’t help but just-- _stare_ at the hard-won shuriken for a few moments. This was… the Igasakis earned this, not him. It was their accepting his scars and attempted murder and shattering past all together, accepting _him_ , that had caused their NIntality to deepen, to cause the shuriken to transform. This was the total sum of their feelings for Kinji.

He nods, barely more than a twitch, and takes the shuriken. His fingers brush against Yakumo’s, and the sudden warmth of his once-senpai's skin is a shock to his cold hands, shaking him free of that state just a little more.

Not that it matters now. Kinji lost. He was never going to be a student of the Last Ninja now.

But…

...he doesn’t want to _go_.

And even that choice gets taken away from him. And it’s not long at all before he’s standing in the hatch of Surfermaru, five rolls of coloured streamer in his hands, the other ends held in the hands of the five Igasakis - his five _friends_ \- as they wave and shout their goodbyes.

Maybe, one day, they might even have been his family. He doesn’t know - he’s never stuck around any group of people long enough to know.

When the streamers break free from their cardboard moors, the faint tears hit him like bullets, and there’s a strange, sad sense of _finality_ to it. This really is it.

He only spares the Igasakis one last lingering look, before he doesn’t look back. He just pulls down the door of the hatch, winds it shut, and climbs down the ladder to head further into the submarine. It’s only a small room at the bottom of the ladder, but it’s surprisingly cosy. White metal walls, purple, industrial mesh floor and fluorescent strip lights, almost yellow-gold, overhead, and an open door directly in front of him that bleeds natural light into the room.

He’s not sure what he was expecting it to look like on the other side of that, but he shouldn’t be so surprised: the door comes out on the far left of a control room. It’s only a fraction bigger than Bison King’s cockpit; the walls and floor extend from the previous room into this one, but there’s swirling patterns of magnificent beach scenery in an artful wash of purple, pink, blue, white and gold paint and layered metal panes. A raised captain’s seat (that is _highly_ reminiscent of Shurikenjin’s pilot’s seat, making Kinji’s heart ache anew) sits to the right of the door, against the same wall; the arms of it are surrounded by consoles of buttons and lights, and opposite the chair are wide windows, framed in gold with slatted windows on the outer sides; and visible through it, the sea, covering the bottom half of the view. Out that way, facing away from the land itself, there were a few boats in the distance, but that was it. It was just… an open expanse.

And where, hopefully, Kinji’s new destiny lay.

He walks slowly across the short distance, and sits in the pilot’s chair. He rests one hand on the consoles beside the arms, and he feels a hum of energy. Not just of energy running through the submarine’s parts - he can feel the soul inside, in the same way he can Rodeomaru’s when he’s piloting the old mecha. His hand strokes down the length of the buttons, making sure not to trip any, and he feels the sympathetic warmth of Surfermaru beneath his fingers, trying to coax some cheer out of him.

And, indeed, a small smile graces Kinji’s lips, as sad and emotionally taxed as he is. “Alright then,” he says, his voice quiet and heavy. “Let’s be on our way.”

The Otomonin doesn’t need directions, or to be steered; Kinji just hears the propellor start, feels how it makes the whole submarine shake gently as it takes off, and watches the water rise over the viewport in front of them as Surfermaru dives.

Kinji leans back in the seat, watching the view, and tries not to think about how his hands are now balling tightly into fists, and he breathes deeply to try and keep his watering eyes from overflowing.

“Back to America it is…”


End file.
